My Cardboard Balcony

Tra-la-la Doom by Belinda Roddie And the stranger picks a banjo as the sun seeps red from out between its unforgiving fingers, the flare pulsing, nebulae convulsing, betraying sense of emotion to the shrapnel flying every which way. It was not meant to be like this. The pounding of feet in a rambunctious display of pride, spicy hot, served in plastic bottles, splashed onto smiles desiring cool tongues. And then the smoke rose. And then the red spread. And then the doom fell.

Taffy McSnarkerson had a great deal of leverage with the Mayors of Windywald and the Governor of New Arkansassippi. And he barely even moved a muscle for it. He just wormed his way out of his bed and eeled his way into his chair, punched in a few numbers, and got the many corporate tycoons to grovel at his feet. Was it his charming good looks? His soothing voice? His influence? Or his cold, dead eyes?